


The Good in Conversation

by Crowgirl



Series: On the Strength of the Evidence [5]
Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Confessional, Confessions, Consensual Infidelity, Explanations, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Relationship Discussions, Resolved Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7671352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Look. I’m bound to make a mess o’ this, right? There’s no way ‘round it.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good in Conversation

‘Finish -- what --’ Sidney stares at Geordie without being able to think of a single thing to say. The silence goes on; he can hear birds in the hedge, the distant slam of a door, and he still can’t think of anything to say. But the longer the silence lasts, the more clearly he can see that Geordie wants to laugh and for some reason _that’s_ what makes this whole thing too much: that Geordie should _laugh_ at him now. He has kept quiet for too many years, kept his mouth shut and his eyes down and his hands still for too long to be laughed at now. 

Rather than start yelling in the garden, though, he grabs Geordie’s shoulder and spins him around, propelling him into the house at a quick march. He gets them both into his study, shuts the doors, and resists the urge to shut the window and pull down the blind. If there is a surer way to make someone notice something odd is going on, he doesn’t know what it is. He counts himself lucky that this is Mrs M’s night out -- otherwise she might’ve been waiting for them here with tea or a complaint about his working in the garden or some other God-forsaken thing and he’s not sure he could have barefaced his way out of that.

Geordie stands in the middle of the room a little awkwardly, his hands in his pockets. He glances between between Sidney and the door Sidney is still standing in front of and Sidney takes a deliberate step to block it. Geordie sighs inaudibly and his shoulders go down, then he clears his throat and looks squarely at Sidney. ‘Well?’

 _‘Well?’_ Sidney parrots back. ‘Well? Well! What the -- what the --’ An echo of Mrs Maguire's favorite phrase drifts past his ear and he shakes his head hard to dislodge it; he can’t really see himself asking Geordie _What the dickens did you think you were doing?_ If nothing else, the idea gives him a nearly hysterical desire to laugh. ‘What the _hell_ do you think you were doing!’ 

Geordie flushes but his voice is steady. ‘Kissing you.’ 

Sidney can feel his own face get hot and his palms itch with wanting to reach out and touch Geordie’s arm again -- but he balls them up and shoves them in his pockets. He could cross the room, put his hands on Geordie’s shoulders, tell him _yes, please, finish what you started,_ and try like hell not to think-- 

But he can’t, he knows he can’t, he’s never been able to do that even when he could have gotten away with it. All he can think is that Geordie is married, married, _married..._ The word repeats in his mind like a fragment of a tune -- it almost has a melody to it, definitely has a rhythm -- and he’s stuck in silence again. He wonders for a minute if he isn’t asleep, dozed off of a warm evening, and this is all a dream. But, no, he can feel a graze on his wrist from the ivy and his palms are gritty with dirt. 

He stares at Geordie who looks back but can’t seem to find anything to say any more than Sidney can. The flash of energy that got him this far is draining away like someone pulling the plug out of a bath and Sidney sags back against the door, rubbing his hands, dirty or not, over his face. ‘Christ, Geordie…’

‘Cathy knows I’m here.’

Sidney drops his hands and stares again. ‘She what?’

Geordie has set his shoulders, the look on his face not dissimilar to that Sidney has seen him adopt before trying to make the Chief Constable think that whatever it is Geordie wants to do has actually been _his_ idea all along. ‘She knows I’m here. She --’ Geordie hesitates for a long moment, then blows out his breath and pinches his eyes shut. He repeats himself slowly without opening them: ‘She knows I’m here. We -- we -- have an understanding.’

Sidney bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying any of the things that pop into his head.

Geordie opens his eyes and stabs a finger at him. ‘And whatever you’re thinking, I guarantee it’s wrong.’

‘Do you.’ Sidney knows he sounds flat but better flat than some of the things he’s thinking.

‘I do. You’re thinking I’m here to read you some sob story like that sod Taylor who couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to keep from dropping young Ben in the nick.’ 

‘I-- wasn’t thinking that.’ It doesn’t sound at all convincing and Sidney doesn’t go on. That would just bring him to the list of things he isn’t asking, starting with _if that’s the case, then what on earth was all of that with Taylor? And those two young men you arrested out of hand? Did you make their records disappear, too?_ If there’s any point to them continuing to speak after this evening, he’ll find occasion to ask all those questions.

 _‘Oh, officer, my wife just doesn’t understand me--’_ Geordie adopts a high-pitched voice and flaps a hand loose from the wrist, then scowls. ‘Don’t you think I’ve heard that a time or two meself?’

‘I thought you probably had.’ There had been something a little too practised in how Geordie made the fledgling criminal record disappear.

‘And it isn’t every set of files finds its way down the back of the cabinet, either,’ Geordie adds and he looks angrier than the comment warrants. There’s something there, some other story, and Sidney tucks it away to remember another day. If there _is_ another day. He wants to believe Geordie -- he wants to believe him so very badly that he doesn’t dare trust what he’s hearing; it’s too good, too close to what he wants to be the truth. 

If he had been asked to write a scenario for what he imagined, sometimes, late at night, when he was sure the vicarage was silent, it would not have been too far off this. Probably more whiskey would have been involved, a later night leading to more exhaustion on both of their parts so that no-one would bear blame for what happened next. 

More kisses would have followed the first -- he hasn’t let himself picture them too clearly but once or twice his imagination got ahead of him in the friendly quiet of the vicarage late at night, the quiet and the dark that he lets himself think would hide two as well as one -- and his mouth tingles again; he rubs his thumb across his lower lip before he thinks. Geordie’s eyes flash to the movement and he moves as if to come forward, then visibly holds himself in place. ‘You can ask her yourself -- she said you might want to and that I should tell you that was all right.’

‘Ask her...ask her _what,_ Geordie?’ The pleasant tingle dies away. Sidney can feel weariness starting to weigh him down and he makes his way to his desk chair. He wishes reaction didn’t hit him like this, like something dragging at his limbs, but it does. He doesn’t remember if it was always like this but it has been since the war. It’s usually transitory but there’s no way around it.

Uncharacteristically, Geordie stays silent, then drags the other chair opposite Sidney’s and sits down. He plants his hands on his knees, squares his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. ‘Look. I’m bound to make a mess o’ this, right? There’s no way ‘round it.’

‘That’s heartening.’ Sidney digs the fingers of one hand into his hair and lets his head rest on his palm.

‘Don’t you start.’ Geordie pauses, blows his breath out, inhales. ‘Cathy and me -- we met during the war after I’d got handed the rough end of the stick by a lad I was in training with and she and her…her...’ Geordie pauses again, looking slightly startled, and then laughs, falling back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what to call her. Her name’s Caroline, Caro -- they’ve been together for years, more of a pair than anyone I know--’

Sidney holds up his free hand to stop him, still resting his head on his other palm. ‘Wait. You and Cathy -- you’re one of the...the happiest couples around here -- I’ve never really seen you disagree, let alone quarrel.’

‘Aye, you’re right, but it’s not because we’re childhood sweethearts or anything like that. We -- we understand each other, I don’t... I don’t really know why, but we do, and--’ Geordie stumbles and stops, the flush coming back into his face. He takes a long breath and starts again, slowly, deliberately: ‘Part of it is that neither of us expects to get everything we want from the other.’ He looks up at Sidney as if expecting argument and goes on, a little defiantly, ‘Cath and Caroline have been together since before I knew either of ‘em. I’d no more think of asking them to separate than I would sending one of me own kids away.’

There’s nothing but honesty in Geordie’s voice and, as much as Sidney distrusts himself at this moment, he does know what Geordie looks like when he’s lying and this isn’t it. Still, it’s his job right now to question, not let himself get distracted by what he _thinks_ he knows -- or what he knows he wants to be true. ‘But...I don’t understand.’ He leans forward, planting one elbow on his knee and gesturing as if trying to diagram something in the air. ‘You have _four_ children. If she isn’t--’ He realises what he’s trying to say suddenly and feels himself go hot all over and can’t go on.

‘We both wanted kids,’ Geordie says simply. ‘And Caro -- she never wanted to be a mum. She’s a first-class auntie, mind, but get her up at two in the morning for something that isn’t her house on fire and you’ll soon know you’ve made a bloody great mistake.’ He smiles and, despite himself, Sidney smiles back, realising at the same time how natural this has become to him, to meet Geordie’s cheer with his own. He likes seeing Geordie smile; it happens too rarely.

Given the situation, though, it’s dangerous to allow that feeling much sway, so Sidney deliberately sobers himself, sits back in his chair again. ‘So -- you and Cathy had the...the children and Caroline…’ He pauses, stuck for the word.

Geordie makes a bit of a face and waggles his hand side to side in an equivocating gesture. ‘You make it sound like we signed a contract…’ He mimes writing in mid-air: ‘Four children by 1955 or forfeit of deposit.’ He snorts and drops his hand back to his knee. ‘It’s not like me and Cathy don’t _like_ each other.’

‘But -- you’re not in love.’ If Geordie’s willing to use the words, then Sidney’s damned if he’ll fiddle about. After all, it isn’t _his_ marriage they’re talking about. 

Geordie blinks. ‘That’s a bit...harsh.’

Sidney’s temper flares before he can bite it back. ‘Oh, well, forgive me for not knowing the proper vocabulary! I never studied the correct way to describe a marriage involving three people!’

‘No. I’m sorry. I haven’t got anything better.’ Geordie offers a tentative smile. ‘I don’t know what to tell you except that it works.’

‘And Cathy is happy with this? _You’re_ happy with this?’ He’s not going to worry about this Caroline who he hasn’t even met. He’s clinging desperately to the dictum he remembers one of the older dons at King's repeating time and again: one crisis at a time when at all possible.

Geordie nods, then shrugs, then nods again and spreads his hands. ‘Look, it might not be the romance of the century but that’s not what either of us wanted.’

‘All right, that’s...that’s not really my business, I suppose, but why are you _here?’_ Sidney stabs a finger towards the floor. ‘Why did you--’ He can’t say it again without risking too much distraction from the part of him that’s jumping up and down and yelling _the best boy in the school just kissed you, you fool, stop asking questions!_ ‘What do you want from _me?’_

Geordie gives him a look as though Sidney is being unutterably slow, then he sighs and rubs a hand over his forehead, leaning one elbow on the arm of the chair and propping his chin on his knuckles. ‘I said I’d make a mess of this.’

Sidney resists the urge to roll his eyes but only barely. ‘You can’t make a mess of explaining why you did what you did. You’re the only one who knows!’

The corner of Geordie’s mouth twists up. ‘You’re sure about that, are you?’

‘In this case, yes,’ Sidney says with as much certainty as he can muster. That crooked smile has been a weak spot of his longer than he likes to remember and now, with the taste of Geordie’s last cigarette still in the corner of his own mouth, it isn’t any better.

Geordie watches him shift and his eyes narrow slightly and Sidney curses himself for being transparent. He reaches for the cigarettes on his desk, more to give himself something to do with his hands than out of any real desire for a smoke. The familiar ritual of shaking two loose from the pack, lighting both, offering one, serves to give the room a momentary veneer of normality.

Geordie takes a pull of smoke and holds it for a minute, then blows it out in a long stream. ‘I did it because I wanted to. Kiss you, I mean, not--’ He waves the cigarette. ‘--cadge a fag.’

Sidney makes himself hold the smoke for a moment longer than he really wants to ensure he won’t choke when he tries to talk. ‘You...wanted to.’ A tiny puff of smoke comes out with the words and lingers in front of his face in the still room; he waves it away impatiently and, just in case, Geordie hadn’t understood there was a question there, repeats himself with more emphasis: ‘You _wanted_ to kiss me?’

Geordie nods, knocking ash into the tray on Sidney’s desk. ‘Have for awhile.’

This time Sidney really does choke and has to cough up a lungful of smoke before he can speak. ‘A _while?’_ He tries to go on and catches smoke in his throat which leads him into another coughing fit.

Geordie reaches out and takes the cigarette out of his fingers. ‘Catch your breath first.’

Sidney has no choice but to do as he says and manages to drag in a full breath, his eyes watering. He coughs again, holds his breath for a minute, and watches Geordie take a last drag off his own cigarette and stub them both out. ‘I was going to finish that--’

Geordie gives him a dubious look and shakes his head. ‘Not coughing like that, you’re not.’ He leans up over Sidney’s desk and pushes the window open. A sudden stab of fear cuts through the ache in Sidney’s throat: someone will _see,_ someone will _hear--_ ‘No -- don’t --’

‘Why not?’ Geordie catches his wrist when he reaches for the window and Sidney freezes, his throat burning, his eyes still watery, and every nerve he possesses that _isn’t_ in his left wrist shuts down. All he can feel are Geordie’s fingers: warm, dry, the rough places on his index finger and thumb where he tends to grip his pen too tightly and fuss endlessly with the loose change in his pocket. 

‘You’ve asked me all the questions; I get to ask you one now,’ Geordie says quietly.

Sidney swallows hard and nods. ‘All right.’ He’s pleased that his voice sounds, for all that he’s only barely finished hacking like a schoolboy, fairly reasonable. 

Geordie hesitates briefly. ‘Are you angry with me?’

Sidney stares at him. The question’s too simple. He hasn’t been _angry_ with someone in -- God, he can’t remember the last time. Frustrated, yes; annoyed, certainly; irritated, of course; even enraged briefly, but something as simple as _anger?_

Nonsensically, all he can think of is a man who had shared lodgings with him at university and had nicked his last clean collar just before Christmas Eve service. ‘No. No, I’m not angry.’

‘So -- you’re not going to throw me out in the street, refuse to talk to me?’ Geordie offers the possibilities with a half-smile but there’s no amusement in the expression and his eyes are dark, his brows drawn together. He lets go of Sidney’s wrist at the same time and Sidney feels the full weight of his situation when he has to stop himself from reaching to catch Geordie’s hand back. Even if this isn’t exactly what he had imagined, he has, quite literally, _dreamed_ about Geordie touching him and now it’s actually happened he doesn’t want it to be over.

‘No -- no, of course not, I-- Geordie--’ Sidney presses the heels of his hands against his eyes hard enough to make himself see stars and, before he can talk himself out of it and into something sane, reasonable, respectable, job- and dignity-preserving, says, ‘If you’ve wanted to kiss me for a _while--’_ He emphasizes the word heavily, hoping to get a smile and gets a faint one. He hesitates for a last moment, feeling a hot blush burning its way up his throat, then coughs and makes himself go on: ‘Then -- then you’re not as observant as you always make out to be because I was there at least two days ahead of you.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [_Pericles_](http://www.bartleby.com/70/4720.html).
> 
> As always, ten thousand blessings on [Elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane) and [Kivrin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin).
> 
> Also, just as a terminology PSA: I'm not using any 'Poly--' tags on this fic, just the 'Consensual Infidelity' one.


End file.
